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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24311347">The Third Son - One-shot</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/JosefAik/pseuds/JosefAik'>JosefAik</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>A Song of Ice and Fire &amp; Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>House Royce, House Stark, Originally Posted Elsewhere, Other, Posted Elsewhere, The Night's Watch (ASoIaF), Winterfell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 03:41:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,531</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24311347</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/JosefAik/pseuds/JosefAik</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The oaths of the Night's Watch bind those who speak them to the Wall for the rest of their life, however long that may be. On his journey north, Ser Waymar Royce starts to have doubts about his own role at the Wall, as well as within his own family. His role as the third son of a noble house demand him to do what he can to seek out honour, but to what lengths can he go to achieve this, and can he really serve his entire life at the Wall because of a sense of duty?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Waymar Royce &amp; Yohn Royce</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Third Son - One-shot</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The cold of Winterfell wrapped itself around Ser Waymar Royce as he walked his way along the battlements, his hands covered in black gloves, his shoulders protected by a heavy fur cloak, a gift from his elder brother before he had left Runestone for good. There was no snow here yet, but, as his Lord host liked to say, winter was coming, and with it came winds that were biting and malicious in the way that they cut through you.  </p><p>The dark of night had long since settled over the lands of the North, and much of Winterfell itself was covered in shadow and darkness, save only for the light that spilled out from the great hall, bathing the courtyard in a gentle glow. Sounds of celebration and rejoicing still echoed up to his ears. He heard soldiers call for more of everything; drink, food, service, women. The Lord here was Eddard Stark, a hard man, as if chiselled from ice and snow. Still, he knew how to house guests, and what would be expected of him as a host.  </p><p>There had been a hunt the day before, all in honour of him, though Waymar had lost himself in the thick trees of the Wolfswood. The prey here, in these harsh lands, was very different to that of which he was used to in the craggy plains of the Vale. It seemed to him that it was not just the beasts that were different here, but the forests themselves. It was as if the trees whispered to each other, in some long-dead language, whipped away from human ears by the winds. It was as if the trees had eyes, so that they could watch him, though whether this was malicious he could not tell. It scared him all the same.  </p><p>The Royces of Runestone were of an ancient bloodline, harking back to the old Kings of the Vale, and beyond that even further. They carried the blood of the First Men, the blood of the ancients, and, whilst not publically, they still held a belief in the Old Gods. Waymar had never believed in them until he had found himself lost amongst those trees. There had been something unnatural about them though. He could feel it.  </p><p>He looked out over them, and even now they swayed in the wind, singing songs of long-dead warriors, and battles that would be fought over and over, of games and wars, of life and death. They sang the songs of the First Men, and the songs of the Giants, the Children of the Forest, and... More. </p><p>This castle was little better. It was built upon the bones of its dead Lords, Starks that called out from the grave. Buried here was Brandon the Builder, whose actions had coloured the fate of Westeros for thousands of years. It had been he that had built the Wall, and now Waymar understood why. The songs of the trees spoke of something that was coming, it was an anxious tune of warning and regret, but he could not know the words, nor what it was that lay beyond the Wall, and who could he speak to of it all? Women would call him mad, and men would call him worse. It was best to keep his fears to himself. He did not want to seem weak.  </p><p>He didn’t hear the footsteps behind him, and so was surprised when a great arm clapped him across the back, before pulling him into an embrace. It was the frame of a large man, with a mighty grey beard. The hands that held him were gnarled and rough. He knew those hands, and so he knew who this was.  </p><p>“My son, Waymar, I am proud of you for doing this. Serving at the Wall is a great honour for our family, even if men say otherwise.” </p><p>He knew that his father was drunk, as discussion of pride was a topic that Yohn only ever reserved for his two older sons. There was Andar the heir, and Robar the warrior, and then Waymar the disappointment. It was hard enough being the third son, without being shorter and less skilled than his elder siblings. He tried to cover that with confidence, but inside he knew the truth.  </p><p>“The Wall is such a long way from home, father.” </p><p>“Nonsense, my child. The Wall will be your home. I am sure it won’t be lomg until Runestone is naught but a distant memory. Your mother will miss you, I am sure, but you will have a new family.” </p><p>Mother might miss him, of course, but his father would not. He would bask in the glory that his two elder sons brought him, and only speak of Waymar when it came to celebrating the ancestral honour of the Royce family. Meanwhile, he would be freezing his balls off at the Wall, surrounded by a small army of rapers and thieves.  </p><p>“If mother would miss me then you could always take me back south, allow me to take a wife and give you and her grandchildren. I can bring honour to the family name that way.” </p><p>He looked up at his father’s face, but any joy, happiness, or pride had been replaced by the jut of the hard jaw, and the frownlines above his cold, steely eyes.  </p><p>“What honour would it bring us to show you off as a craven, too scared to take his place at the Wall? What would Lord Eddard think of us, what would the rest of the Kingdom think of us? Your place is at the Wall, Waymar, where you will do more for our family than you ever could by swaddling babes and cowering away behind your mother’s dresses.” </p><p>The words stung, even if he had been expecting them. He was fair enough with a sword, and he was not unhandsome, so he wasn’t sure what more his father wanted from him. Was he pushed aside so much merely because of when he had been born? Had he been birthed before Robar then would their situations have been reversed? </p><p>He did not think his father to be a bad man, for Yohn cared well for his people, and his knights, and anyone else who served him well, just not his thirdborn son. For whatever reason, Yohn had always put the family honour over any paternal instinct. Maybe that was the curse carried by those of the First Men houses, for he had seen the same hardness in the eyes of Lord Stark. One day, Waymar had thought, it would be one of the wolf’s pups that was being sent away to bring the family honour, and one of his girls that would be wed off to bring the family alliances. Maybe that was the world of lordly children; to be used by their parent for any whim they wished.  </p><p>Still, the things that father demanded of Robar and Andar were little in comparison. He was not riding off to a faraway joust, to win coin and woo maids like Robar. He was riding to the Wall, to a life of chastity and servitude. In truth, he did not give two shits about the family honour, but he had little choice. What words could he say against his father that would ever change the mind of the great Bronze Yohn? This was his fate, and he had to learn to live with it.  </p><p>“I will serve in our family name, father.” </p><p>The broad smile was back on Yohn’s face at that remark. He ruffled Waymar’s hair with his powerful, old hands.  </p><p>“That’s my boy. You will do us proud, and serve for many years yet, I would imagine. One day, you may even have the honour of serving as Lord Commander.” </p><p>Maybe one day he would be, but what would that have brought him? He would have just been one amongst an unending list of men who served and died at their post, men who, across most of Westeros, were forgotten, save for the few who failed in their duty. What would he earn from his service, beyond a life of frozen balls and nobody to carry on his own legacy? </p><p>Still, this was his place, no? He was the third son. It had been his duty from the day he had been born to find a way to bring his family honour, and this was the way that his father had decided he could achieve that. Where was the use in wishing things were different? What was the purpose in calling to the gods and demanding that his lot in life be changed? This was his life to live, but only if he chose to live it in the way that had been chosen for him.  </p><p>He looked out over the frozen wastelands of the North, and once again wondered what lay out there, in these lands of dark myth and frozen tales. If the trees themselves were singing of fear, then what evil could possibly have inspired them? To them he would seem as insignificant and as small as an ant, and maybe, in the grand scheme of things, they were right.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I wrote this because I think that most readers/fans will forget about Ser Waymar almost as soon as he dies at the very start of the first book. I wanted to try and take a character like that and see what could be done with them. I hope you enjoyed the direction that it went. </p><p>ps It really hurt me to write Yohn like that, because I love that bronze badass in the books. Maybe one day I will dedicate a story to him to make up for his portrayal in this.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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